Wicker basket. Someone call Moses from the wood, from the water, through the reeds. There he say, there he lay. In his basket. Crying. There a little shifts of ripples that find their way to the edge of the basket, creating mild turbulence and little rain, little shift, little waves. It is soothing though and he settles. Wicker baskets carried on the heads of strong woman who go to the river to wash their clothes and linens. They are regal queens with turbans and headresses whose strength knows no bounds. Gaia-incarnate. Simplistic to no overture. Their biceps and triceps and thicker and stronger than mine every will be. They could knock you out with one punch if you overstep the line. Honorable samurai code. Total separation. On this evening, dusk scene there is incense in the air. Perfumed frankincense. Perhaps there are also jasmine flowers growing under the window of some home, and there is a woman in her kitchen sipping tea and she is living in now, living in the present, smelling the jasmine and thinking “What a good life this is that I can sit in my kitchen in the dark with the lights turned off with an open window and hear the crickets singing, smelling this jasmine that grows right underneath my window”. It’s all about syllable placement. It’s all about getting it out. Temper tantrum hurricane, because maybe the Earth really isn’t that hold, that old. I’ve resignedly accepted that I cannot will myself to do everything. The tales the backstory holds. Watching television. Numbing out. Do you remember what it’s like to be floating in wicker baskets, biding time, and twiddling your thumbs. Some authenticity quest having to do with finding your stream. Some big empty vessel, pour your life into that somehow. There are women etched onto the walls of some Egyptian tomb, painted on with gold-flecked paint. Hieroglyphics and pictographs depicting life, a life that we no longer know and can only imagine to the best of our ability based on the texts and pictures and tools they left behind. For every honorable king, there are at least three narcissistic scum bags. To root them out, we must be better parents and teachers and humans and teach them to not be and not value those traits that make them so. Basket weaving circle. Women sitting crosslegged in a sacred shape, singing and smiling.